Page 75 of Riot House
At Wolf Hall, there’s no escape from my studies. I’m only ever three floors away from a classroom, and that fact in itself makes the beginning of the academic week more depressing than it should be. I don’t really get to leave, so it never feels as though I’ve had a break.
It’s gloomy again, rain slashing at the windows as I make my way down the stairs, dreading this morning’s English class. When I reach the hallway, there are students everywhere, chattering loudly and joking with one another as they make their way to their first lesson of the day. I should feel lighter than I do. I get to see Wren soon, but this isn’t some sweet high school romance that I can let myself feel giddy over. It’s a secret. Wren didn’t tell me to keep what happened with him the other night quiet, but it’s there all the same, an unspoken agreement between the two of us: it would be bad for both of us if anyone knew we’d torn each other’s clothes off and fucked in his bedroom.
My heart shoots up into my throat as I see Dashiell enter through the academy’s entrance, shaking his head like a wet dog, sending droplets of water flying from the ends of his dark blond hair. Pax appears after him, a broad smile spread across his face, laughing at the top of his lungs at some private joke.
And then there’s Wren.
My breath stills in my chest.
He enters the school, dressed head to toe in black, the shoulders of his hoody darkened by the rain, the hood pulled up over his head, his eyes already searching, searching, searching...
He finds me, standing on the bottom step of the stairs, and the lights overhead dim. I step down, sliding along the edge of the hallway, my back against the wall, and the Riot House boys shove their way through the crowds, still caught up in whatever conversation they were having when they arrived. Two of them are, at least. Wren stills on the other side of the hall, coming to a stop opposite me. A tense moment passes where we stare at each other across the sea of bustling bodies, our line of sight clear, then obscured, clear, then obscured by the flow of students as they pass us by,
How is no one else reacting to this? How can they not feel the electricity in the air? How is everyone else so blind, and deaf and dumb to the pressure that’s building around them as Wren Jacobi and I share this blisteringly surreal moment?
“Forgotten the way?”
I glance up and Carina’s there, clutching her school bag to her chest, wearing a pristine white t-shirt and a tartan skirt that should be illegal, it’s so short.
“Sorry?”
“What are you doing, just standing there? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she says, laughing.
“Oh. Uh, nothing. Sorry.”
“I thought you were gonna go save us a seat. Come on. If we don’t hurry, someone else will grab our sofa.”
I look up and Wren’s gone.
Doctor Fitzpatrick’s already at the front of his room when Carina and I enter. “Come on, girls. You know the punishment if you’re late,” he says, grinning.
“What’s the punishment for being late?” I hiss.
Carina grabs my arm and pulls me toward the sofa. “You don’t want to know.”
Once we’re sitting down, I grab my notepad out of my bag, twisting a pen over in my fingers nervously, surveying the room. I look at every other student in the class before I give in and allow my gaze to drift (as casually as I can manage) over to the battered leather sofa on the opposite side of the room.
Wren’s right where he’s supposed to be...but he’s not sprawled out, lying on his back, staring angrily at the ceiling today. He’s sitting up like a normal person, eyes locked on his hands, his hair falling into his face, a tiny frown pulling at his dark brows. Dashiell and Pax are sitting on the floor, underneath the window, but they’re not sniping at one another today. They both seem to be covertly watching Wren, muttering to each other under their breath. Dash must feel me looking at him. His head whips up and he looks right at me.
Wait. No. Not at me. At Carina.
“Asshole,” she grouses. “What kind of sick fuck do you need to be to lead someone on, take their fucking virginity, humiliate them in the worst way imaginable, and then stare at them every available opportunity you get afterward? Like, what is he even trying to accomplish, looking at me like that?”
He’s not trying to accomplish anything. He’s reliving something. Replaying it over in his head, savoring every second as he remembers stripping Carina out of her clothes and fucking her senseless. I know, because I know that look. That same dazed, distant expression has appeared on my face at least ten times since Saturday night.
I didn’t text him.
He didn’t text me.
What does that mean? Were we both waiting for the other person to reach out first? Have we both been stubborn and stupid, too caught up in our own pride to even communicate with each other? Or have I gotten this wrong? Is he just content, now that he’s had me? Have I given him the one thing he wanted, and now I can expect never to speak to him again?
“I’d love to walk right over there and smack the evil prick. He probably doesn’t think I’ll do it. I used to kickbox, though. I could hit him hard enough to leave a bruise.” Carina’s oblivious to my spiraling panic. I don’t want to be that girl—the girl who freaks out over a boy, questioning every move she makes and overanalyzing everything to the point of madness. I make the decision, right here and now:I will not be that girl.
“He’s probably ruing the day he messed with you, Carina. Don’t worry about it. He’s looked away now.”
“Class. I hate to have to do this to you. I’m sure you’ve all been dreading this moment all semester, but it’s that time again...” Doctor Fitzpatrick laughs as a chorus of groans goes up around the room. I lean forward, squinting at the handsome teacher, trying to get a better look at him. Something’s off. Something—
“Carina?”
